


Kane

by poisontaster



Series: AKB Outtakes [4]
Category: Actor RPF, CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Gen, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 18:02:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kane meets his new owner.  Jeff is working on this whole "thinking things through" schtick. Takes place in 1995</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kane

"Couldn't get enough, I guess, could you?"

It's a dangerous thing to say, volatile, but Chris has never backed down from dangerous things. No point, if you're a slave, right? In any case, he feels like he's got this Morgan guy pegged. Chris barely even remembers the guy but apparently he's been carrying a torch. Christ, four freaking years. That's got to be something of a record. 

The guy, Morgan, he looks pretty nervous but he smiles. "You got any stuff?"

Chris leans back from his kneel, spreading his knees wider, and cranes his chin back toward the bed. "It's an Escrow house, Master; they got all the stuff you could want." He rolls his head back up to look at Morgan and makes his voice a simper. "You gonna fuck me now, Daddy-O?"

Lots of owners come in nervous, pent up like teenagers, waiting to get their hands on what they just bought. Not too many of them blush. Morgan does, though, a dull, not-pretty brick red, and his eyes flick away from Chris's naked body. "Not what I meant." His voice is a lot gruffer than the fainting maiden look on his face. "You have…gear, possessions… _clothes_?"

Kane straightens up. This is becoming a lot less fun, the acid churn of his stomach coming back up through the electric-bright rush of adrenaline. "Yeah. I have stuff. Clothes." He sneers the last word.

He fully expects Morgan to say, "Trash them"; even though Lady Roberts was _gracious_ enough to gift him with the things he's called his for the last two years, most owners don't want their spandy-new slaves coming with baggage, literal or metaphorical. 

"Good," Morgan says instead, tucking his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders. He sounds pissed. "Get dressed."

"You don't want to fuck me?" Chris doesn't mean for it to come out so startled, so goddamn _needy_. He feels disgusted with himself but it's too late to call it back. Fuck Morgan and his head games anyway.

"No," Morgan says flatly, like he didn't just pay Lady Roberts a sick load of cash for a piece of ass he already had once, four years ago. "I don't. Now let's go."

"Wait!" The word sears Chris's throat, his chest, but there's defiance and then there's stupidity.

Morgan turns back. "What?"

"You have to collar me." He fists his hands, knuckles burning against the carpet's nap, angry that he has to be the one to say the words. He snakes his fingers through the link of the Commerce collar, tugging it taut. "I can't leave like this."

Morgan's shoulders slump, the tightness of his expression easing a little. "Right. Right. Sorry."

Chris keeps the tick of surprise he feels at the apology off his face as Morgan comes across and squats down in front of him. The asshole has the Commerce key in his hand already; it jags against the lock twice before Morgan fumble-fingers it open. Chris doesn't rub the skin, even though he wants to. Riley used to say that there was mercury in Commerce collars to make them so cold and Chris had never had the heart to tell him mercury didn't work like that. 

But thinking about Riley keeps Chris from putting his fist through Morgan's face as he dips through his pockets for Chris's new collar and shakes it out before settling it around Chris's throat. Thinking about Riley is problematic in different ways, however, so as Morgan clasps the chain shut and locks it, Chris thinks about chord changes, fingers tapping almost imperceptibly against his thigh. 

When he's done, Morgan makes like he's going to clap Chris on the shoulder, but he stops the gesture half-made. "There you go." Morgan rocks back on his heels, eyes flickering uneasily but going no further than Chris's shoulders. "Get dressed."

He leaves and Chris figures maybe Morgan's one of those owners who can't get it up at Escrow, freaked out by the idea of Commerce watching them. He wonders if they'll make it all the way back to wherever the hell Morgan lives or whether they'll go at it in the car. Lord Zane had practically put Chris on his knees in the parking lot. But Lord Zane was also psycho, so that isn't always the best yardstick. 

Can't be discounted as a possibility, though.

+

"You ever been on a bike?" Morgan holds a helmet in his hands while a second one dangles from the motorcycle's handlebar. He looks embarrassed again. "I'm sorry. If I'd been thinking I would've rented a car for the day."

"I'll figure it out." Chris takes the helmet from Morgan's hands, mounts up on the back of the bike. 

Morgan looks at Chris for a minute like he wasn't expecting such easy agreement. Or maybe like he wants to knock the shit out of him; Chris hasn't known Morgan long enough to be able to tell his looks apart. But Morgan just knocks his own helmet off the handle and crams it down over his short, spiky hair. 

After he's mounted the bike, Morgan twists half round. "You're going to need to hold on to me." 

Chris jerks at the sound of Morgan's voice—only slightly tinny—right next to his ear. Bluetooth in the helmets. Clever. 

Morgan tangles his fingers in the fastenings on either side of his jacket in pantomime. "Like this. Or. It would be better if you put your arms around my waist. But hang on and move with the bike."

"I'll manage," Chris says again, adding tardily, "Master."

Morgan's breath huffs over the wireless but he doesn't say anything else, turning to the front and firing up the bike.

It's unquestionably weird for a master to come and pick up his new slave on a motorcycle, instead of some swank car with a slave in the driver's seat, but as the thrum of the motor thrills up his legs and pours straight into his crotch, Chris can understand the appeal. 

"I'm sorry," Morgan says again, three more apologies than Chris has ever gotten in his lifetime. "I don't own a car. My parents keep bugging me to get one."

He sounds embarrassed about it, but in Chris's experience it's pretty common for the parents of these uber-rich brats to keep meddling in their kid's lives pretty much until the grave takes them down. Morgan's parents hassling him about a car had nothing on the siege-campaign Lady Robert's mother was undertaking to get Lady Roberts married off to her satisfaction. 

What it doesn't seem to require, on the other hand, is a response on Chris's part, so he doesn't give one, starting to crash from the adrenaline high. The bike jerks into motion and Chris rapidly abandons his loose grip on Morgan's sides for both arms around his waist. 

Chris isn't sure how he feels about Morgan yet, but he already knows: _he loves the bike._

+

Chris isn't at all surprised that Lady Roberts sold him—surprise like that is for suckers. They all tell you what a good little boy you are and they're all always on the lookout for the next trendy, pretty young thing. Lady Roberts hadn't been bad, as owners go, but it had been just over a year. That's as long as Chris has lasted with any of his owners since Lady Marlee and he has no doubt that Morgan will drop him just as fast once he's blown his wad.

The thing is, Morgan's body language is all wrong. Eight years in the collar, seven owners and an unknown number of others who've fucked him; Chris knows when he's wanted. 

Four years ago…that was Lord Zane, probably, and probably the reason Chris doesn't really remember Morgan. There's a lot Chris doesn't remember about his time with Lord Zane, and what he does remember he mostly wishes he didn't. He certainly doesn't waste the brain space thinking about it. 

Except now, he kind of is, trying to figure out what the hell happened with them that would make Morgan chase him down years later. Chris prides himself on being no slouch in the sack—has to be, with his disposition—but he'd have to be the goddamn Da Vinci of porn to bring back some kind of repeat business like that. 

Owners don't carry torches for slaves.

They don't have to.

"You hungry?" 

It's an effort for Chris not to startle, jolted out of his thoughts by the sudden Bluetooth intrusion of Morgan's voice. 

"I could eat." It's much easier for him to _sound_ bored but even as Morgan asks the question, he cuts out of the carpool lane and across five lanes of traffic with a scary but impressive suicidal aplomb. Chris's voice wavers a little at the end, knees torquing tight on the bike. 

Morgan slaloms them down the off-ramp and through street side traffic to fetch them up at a grungy store-front taqueria. "What do you want?" Morgan doffs his helmet and Chris follows his example. Sun's going down and Chris sucks in a breath of cooling Los Angeles smog, surprised to find himself shivering compared with the stale, sweaty heat around his face. 

Chris shrugs. "Whatever."

Morgan eyeballs him and his mouth tenses up like he wants to say something but instead he just racks his helmet on the handlebar again and tugs his wallet up from his pocket by the chain. Fishing out a handful of cash, he extends it to Chris. "Here. Get me three tacos—one chicken, one steak and one fish—and a side of rice and beans. Get yourself whatever you want."

Chris takes the money, fanning it out briefly. It's a lot more than a few tacos and some sides are going to cost. He wonders if this is a test. "Yes, Master," he says absently, folding the cash tightly into his palm. The taqueria doesn't have seating inside and so people are just hanging out in the postage-stamp sized parking lot and Chris doesn't like the look of a good half of them.

"Hey," Morgan calls, when Chris gets a couple steps away. 

Defiance in private is very different from lipping off in public. Chris stops and turns. "Yes, sir?"

"Don't—" Morgan scuffs his boot against the asphalt, shoulders hunched and his thumbs tucked in his pocket. "I'd like it if you'd just call me Jeff."

Chris shrugs. "Sure."

Chris orders _Jeff's_ food and gets a burrito and horchata for himself, chatting up the slave behind the counter in his Texas-flavored Spanish and keeping a vague eye on his new owner out in the parking lot. 

Zane had passed Chris around a lot, one of those people that got off more on watching his slave get fucked and humiliated than fucking him himself. On the plus side, Zane had been liberal with his drugs. Not everyone would count that a blessing, but Chris absolutely did. It didn't help much, though, when he was called on to remember details. 

"Oh, man, that's no good." The counterman clucks his tongue, hand balled on his hip as he looks out the same window Chris has been staring through blindly. Chris blinks, cursing himself for losing track of things. Some skeeze in a Mustang—Chris noticed them when he was walking in—is dragging his girlfriend out of the car by her hair. 

Chris can't hear exactly what the dude's yelling—not through the scratched, smeary plastic windows—other than to hear that he's yelling, jagged and staccato. It makes Chris's empty stomach clench tight-sour but it's none of his lookout. He's an owned man and his body doesn't belong to him. Not even to start some shit with a creep who doesn't know better than not to hit women. 

"No," Chris agrees distantly. His bags are waiting on the brushed steel countertop. Chris snatches at them, eyes still on the street drama outside. The guy twists out of the way to avoid his girl's flailing hand and behind him, Chris sees his new master, sallying into the fray.

_Oh, shit._

Chris shoves the bags back on the counter hastily, one bag tipping back behind the counter. "Do me a favor, man, and call the police," he calls over his shoulder, taking off for the door. " _La policia!_ "

People have already started to close in around the scuffle. Chris pushes through bodies indiscriminately, less concerned about any of them than he is about keeping his new, damn fool master from killing himself. 

Jeff's got the guy off the girl, pushed to the circle's edge and clashing like two bucks locking horns. Which is all well and good—a fine thing, a noble thing and all that nice rich boy shit—except for the fact that the girl's coming up from behind Jeff, brown glass bottle gleaming in her hand.

Chris is too far away.

 _Christ, they'll turn me into soap if'n I let him die…_ Chris shoves another two people out of the way, shouting desperately, _"JEFF!"_

Jeff's head jerks sideways—but too late. Shrieking like a fucking air-raid siren, the crazy bitch brings the bottle down.

+

"So. You do this often?"

The cops came faster than Chris expected. The EMT's, however, seem to be taking their sweet goddamn time about it. Seated next to Jeff on the hard-edged guard rail around the parking lot's edge, Chris fidgets and curses them for every wasted second, wondering if it's possible for someone to bleed out through their face. 

"What, you mean get into parking lot throw-downs with random wife-beaters?" Jeff takes the pad of cloth torn from Chris's shirt off his bleeding cheek and looks at it as if to confirm that his face is, indeed, still bleeding. Which it is. Because he was hit with a _bottle_. Chris makes an impatient noise in his throat and pushes Jeff's hand—and the gore-soaked wad of cloth—back into place. "No, not so much." Jeff sounds amused. He sounds _amused_.

"So'm I supposed to feel flattered, I'm the one who gets the stage show?" He shouldn't talk like this. Not to his master. His _new_ master, who he spectacularly failed to keep safe. Cut down Jeff's cheek is at least three inches and is going to require a hell of stitches. There's going to be a _scar_. Chris would throw up if he had anything in his stomach. _Failed. Failure._ "Christ, man. Do you know what they'd do to me if you died?"

Jeff shrugs, turned in on himself. "Wasn't really thinking about that." He looks at Chris, eyes dark and hard to read in the colored strobe from the cop cars. They are, however, without a speck of anger—or self-preservation, apparently—in them. "I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing!" Too loud; the cops are eyeballing him with clear disapproval. As well they should. Lippy, disrespectful, _useless_ slave. And lucky. So damned lucky. "You could've lost an eye," Chris points out, quieter, feeling that Jeff doesn't, maybe, get the gravity of the situation. 

"I wasn't going to stand there and let him beat the shit out of her in front of me." With his free hand, Jeff scratches at a speck of dried blood on his chin. "What the hell else was I supposed to do?"

"Call the police, like a normal rich person!"

Jeff cocks his head, eyebrows tweaking up. "Huh. You know, that didn't even occur to me."

Chris's hand slaps over his face, blood pounding in his ears. 

"I didn't have a whole lot of time to think about it," Jeff points out in return, still sounding strangely calm about the whole thing. 

"Is this what I have to look forward to? Am I going to have to learn jujitsu or something like that?"

Jeff laughs a little, then grimaces as it pulls on his cheek. "No, no jujitsu. I'm working on this whole 'thinking things through' schtick."

"Yeah, I can see that." Chris's mouth is all twisted up, the spit in his mouth bitter and wringing, his boots scuffing on the asphalt. Finally, quieter: "Why _did_ you buy me?"

"Heh." Jeff scratches at a spot on his jeans—like that blood's ever coming out—before he looks back at Chris. "Would you believe me if I said I don't know?"

"No."

Jeff's lips make as much of a smile as they can without moving his torn up cheek. "I guess I'll have to work on finding you a better reason, then."

**Author's Note:**

> For further illumination about Jeff's scar: [Sexy Scars](http://storage.people.com/jpgs/20071126/20071126-750-175.jpg)


End file.
